


In the Lions' Den

by Corona



Series: Playing with Fire [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dancing, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Falling In Love, Fluff, Halamshiral (Dragon Age), Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Orlesian Grand Game (Dragon Age), Romance, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22225291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: Dorian has more than a few concerns about how the incredibly naïve, wears-his-heart-on-his-sleeve-at-all-times Leas will do at the Winter Palace—and about the fact that part of the man's method for charming the Imperial Court seems to involve dancing with other men.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Playing with Fire [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551184
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	In the Lions' Den

"How do you want to handle this?" Dorian mutters to Vivienne as they hurry down the hall towards the atrium of the lodgings they've been granted. He gives his tunic one last tug as they go.

Vivienne, at almost the same time, straightens her icy blue gown and her mask. "We must be vigilant," she says calmly. "The Inquisitor's not a complete incompetent in political settings. His performance with the nobles at Skyhold over the past months has been respectable."

High praise coming from Vivienne, but Dorian feels no more reassured. "Even so, at Skyhold, he had the home advantage. _Here_ …"

"I know, dear. We will have to keep watching him. It would be demeaning, to say nothing of impractical for us to insist on him remaining by our sides at all times. It would make it appear that he has no power. We must give him the freedom to act as he will and be ready to intervene if there are problems."

"Knowing our dear Inquisitor, he'll not even try to send a signal if he gets in trouble," Dorian grouses. "And he'll have no idea when he _is_ in trouble."

Vivienne shakes her head. "That's what we're here for," she says. "But we must give the man a chance to prove himself. His title affords him some measure of protection already. We cannot act as worried parents, swooping in to drag him out by his earlobe at the slightest sign of danger."

"I wasn't suggesting we go _that_ far," Dorian says. The words are stiff, at least in part because her words have reminded him rather too much of his own mother and how she used to do precisely that, just about.

"You were thinking it, darling, or you were on the verge of it," Vivienne says with a knowing smile, and Dorian sighs and concedes defeat. "Trust is the rarest of commodities in the Game, but we should place at least a modicum in him. He has pulled off greater miracles."

"That much is true," Dorian admits, in the same moment that they reach the stairs and descend. Trust Vivienne to be nothing but sensible, but the fear plagues him even so. How is their poor naïf of a Dalish elf, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, has a reputation for painful sincerity, and from whom goodness practically _oozes_ , to survive the Game? He may have survived the Blight and the Fade and the trip through time, but those all involved things that one could fight with spells. The court of Orlais…

After stepping outside, one of the first things they see is Leas himself, standing by the carriage with a serene smile on his face and fingering his mask. He is resplendent in— _oh, no, fasta vass_ —formal attire with _Dalish_ patterning and colours on almost every surface. Not that Dorian himself can complain; his own attire is very Tevinter, but does Leas really want to call attention to himself in such a fashion, to make it any more obvious that he is an elf? Why make it more challenging?

"Why did Josephine permit this," Dorian says under his breath.

"I suspect, knowing the Inquisitor, that she was not informed until it was too late, and he has just come out of a lively debate with her," Vivienne remarks dryly. Dorian sighs again, knowing she must strike very near to the truth, and they head over to Leas, who smiles more broadly at them.

"Are we ready to go?" he says, seeming unperturbed.

"Quite ready, my dear," Vivienne tells him, and she steps into the carriage.

"I am, as well," Dorian says. "Are _you_?"

Leas gestures for him to step in first, and as Dorian does so, he says, "Oh, yes, I'm ready. Or as ready as I can ever be, which, according to Josephine, isn't ready enough, is it?" He says the last part to Josephine, who sits on the opposite side of the carriage and appears distinctly frazzled already.

"It is not!" she exclaims, her voice higher than usual.

Leas chuckles as they settle in their seats, apparently unconcerned. He closes the door behind him, then knocks on it to let the driver know they're ready to leave. "Have _some_ faith, all of you, please," he says lightly. "I have been paying attention to your lessons."

"But absorbed apparently nothing," Dorian says, more of his stress leaking through into his voice than he would like to admit.

"I disagree, but anyway, it's a bit late now," Leas says, leaning back as the carriage begins to move. "I'll be open to any last-minute advice you have, however." That is all the prompting required for Dorian, Vivienne, and Josephine to start speaking almost over each other, trying to cram in as much as possible in the ride's duration.

By the time they reach the gates of the Winter Palace, Dorian is still sure Leas has absorbed nothing.

* * *

It doesn't take long before they encounter their first problem: namely, the suspicion and hostile glances the Orlesians shoot at Dorian from the moment the herald at the door reads out his name.

"They won't believe a word you say in his defence," Vivienne says to him after the introductions are over, as they make their way off the dance floor. "Best you leave him to Josephine and me."

Dorian bristles at her words, hating the thought of being relegated like this. But all the same, he knows she's right. His presence alone is bad enough to the Orlesians. What good will it do Leas if the big bad Tevinter tries to rise to his defence whenever he gets in trouble? No, it would be better to leave that to Josephine and Vivienne, and perhaps Leliana too.

He sighs, conceding defeat once again and formulating a plan in the same moment. "Fair enough. I'll be out in the gardens if you need me. I'll watch how things play out and scare them all off with my big bad Tevinter gaze." Vivienne chuckles softly but nods her approval.

"I can't be everywhere at once," she admits. "I suppose if he gets into trouble in the gardens, you can handle things." She sounds uncertain, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

"What was that you said earlier about having a bit of faith?" he reminds her pointedly.

Vivienne smiles teasingly. "I suppose I _could_ extend a modicum of trust to you as well," she says. "But try not to make things worse."

"Thank you, I certainly needed that reminder," Dorian says. They talk a little while longer, then he picks up a glass from a nearby table, fills it with his first drink of the evening—merlot, of decent quality it seems—and heads out, back into the vestibule, through the Hall of Heroes and the guest wing, and into the gardens.

He meets with a chilly reception when he enters. Still, after he's spent sufficient time standing in roughly the same spot, the novelty seems to fade, and the suspicious glances come less and less frequently. So much the better for him, though he's yet to hear anything of interest to Leas' investigation.

Sometime later, Leas enters the garden, glass in hand. Even in the dim light, his face looks a little flushed, and from here, Dorian can see his grin, though that's about all that he can see thanks to the mask Leas is wearing. It had surprised him that Leas would want to wear a mask at all, but now it occurs to him that respecting Orlesian tradition _might_ in some small way make up for his faux pas of wearing Dalish attire.

Just a little.

Leas passes slowly, almost languidly through the garden, occasionally stopping to eavesdrop—or so it seems—but more often to talk with nobles. Dorian hears the word 'rabbit' far more often than he likes, but Leas does not seem perturbed. Indeed, he only offers gentle remonstrations (dammit, of _course,_ he does) that nevertheless seem to get through, for after he's done, half the nobles he talks to appear embarrassed and apologetic. Otherwise, Leas laughs, and talks, and gesticulates, and bows in the Orlesian way and throws in a few words of Orlesian now and then, and gently grips people's shoulders at strategic moments, and works all the same magic he does at Skyhold.

It shouldn't be effective, not here. But… it is. Dorian almost forgets his drink as he watches, and then… there it is. Some are resistant, but others are being drawn in, opening up, speaking words that aren't laced with poison and have no hidden meaning (or so it seems). They talk—genuinely—and like equals, and Dorian can't help but shake his head as he watches. Surely he must be mistaken…

But as Leas wanders across the gardens, he grins ever wider and gestures broadly, and he gives no sign that he's in trouble at all, and soon the nobles are approaching _him_. He talks with them, drinks with them, smiles and bows at the right moment, flicks his hair— _charms_ them, Dorian can tell. How often has he seen it at Skyhold? He had assumed it would not work here, but…

Finally, Leas comes over to him, and he's close to laughter. "You seem to be having fun," Dorian notes dryly.

"You know I do well in social settings, Dorian," Leas says, draining his glass. "Even if that setting happens to incorporate a few hundred nobles in Halamshiral. You should see how they freeze up when I tell them 'rabbit' is such an inappropriate title for the Inquisitor. I don't know if they're being sincere when they apologise—probably _not_ —but it's good to hold it over them. They all want to get into my good graces so _badly_."

"That's easily taken advantage of, I guess," Dorian admits. "It seems we underestimated you."

Leas chuckles and comes to stand next to him. "Perhaps. Josephine and Vivienne haven't intervened in my conversations yet, and I know they've been watching me like hawks. I must be doing something right. Could be the sincerity," he muses.

"Care to explain?"

"Well, as you've said, this is the epicentre of the Game. I'm sure real friendliness and sincerity are rare enough here as to be almost non-existent. Perhaps the nobles find their presence now to be fascinating, in the manner of people who live in ivory towers being exposed to something they've never seen before."

Dorian barks out a laugh. "A surprisingly cutting assessment coming from you, my dear man," he says, and Leas grins. "But also likely to be true. What little goodness remains in their shrivelled hearts must be drawn to you. You do seem to do that to people."

"I know," Leas says, rather smugly. "I need to do something to distract from the discomfort, anyway. Of being in Halamshiral, I mean. I'm focusing on the here and now, but…"

Dorian sobers and gives him a sympathetic look. "It's not right to see this palace here, is it?" he says, wishing he understood (then being very glad that he can't).

Leas shakes his head. "Not exactly. What this place could have been to my people… I guess we'll never know now. But don't worry, Dorian. As uncomfortable as this, I'm doing just fine. I'm here to stop an assassination, not dwell on past losses."

"So long as you're all right." They talk a while longer, mostly about subjects as Dorian's mother and the parties in Tevinter (which Dorian is next to certain would _not_ be so receptive to Leas) and what he's seen, which is unfortunately little and yet may also be unsurprising, considering how far from the action he is. Then, suddenly, Leas leans in, almost closer than is societally acceptable. Dorian raises an eyebrow.

"Don't wear yourself out mingling, please, _arasha_ ," Leas murmurs, eyes glinting in the dark, a smirk on his face. "I expect a dance before this is over."

Dorian stares, and the words dribble out of his mouth before he has time to wipe the surprise off his face and make his expression match with the rather too flippant tone of his voice. "Dancing with the evil magister in front of every noble in Orlais? How shocking." For a moment, he entertains the idea, but then thoughts of _scandal_ and _propriety_ enter his mind, and the image disappears. His gut clenches.

It would be nice, yes. But does Leas really want to cause a scandal? Just how much is he willing to test his luck?

"They'll live."

And there's the equally flippant dismissal, though Dorian knows he has no right to complain. "You say that now. If you can find me ten silk scarves, I've got a dance that will _really_ shock them."

Leas raises an eyebrow and says, "All right. I also expect an explanation of _that_ at some point."

In response, Dorian smirks, trying possibly too hard to downplay his surprise, and he lets Leas leave to continue his investigation. In the meantime, his gut turns over with that familiar fear.

* * *

Perhaps an hour or two later, they return from the servants' quarters and all the madness therein that so reminds him of home, to the sound of the second bell. Dorian follows them into the ballroom, thinking it might be time for him to get closer to the action regardless of the nobles' hostility. But he has not got five steps inside when the Grand Duchess pulls Leas aside and they walk off. Dancers assemble on the floor below, and Dorian thinks little of it until he looks up from his glass a minute later and sees Leas descending with the Grand Duchess.

Beside him, Vivienne appears much intrigued. "Ah, a dance with Florianne," she says, approvingly. "He _is_ making waves."

"Doing better than you expected, Vivienne?" Dorian asks.

"Oh, indeed," she says. "Though the night is not over yet." She moves away, but Dorian does not watch her go, concentrating instead on the dance.

Politics, of course. Nothing in it—not that there ever would be. How many loathsome women did he have to dance with back home? Still, he remembers what Leas had said to him earlier, and his gut goes tight again, envy stinging him and warming his blood. Even draining his glass does not help. He's nothing to fear from a woman who's about twice Leas' age, or from any woman for that matter. But to be in her position and not have to worry about the scandal, to hold Leas and spin him, to listen to his delighted laughter and have an excuse to gaze into those pretty blue eyes…

_Don't torture yourself with pointless fancies,_ he thinks, and there are more acid and bitterness in the words than he had intended. _It's no use._ He tries to take his mind off things and, naturally, he ends up settling for another kind of torture as he wonders how many _men_ Leas has danced with. He's been enjoying himself tonight, and he liked the dancing lessons he received in the runup to the ball. No doubt there are plenty of men who wouldn't mind…

Suddenly frustrated, Dorian shakes his head and walks away. Perhaps getting away from the dance will help, if he can't bring himself to think of anything else.

A while afterwards, back in the gardens, Dorian hears a few more nobles walk through the doors. In the relative quiet, he can listen to them speaking to each other. The woman says, "I was not expecting Inquisitor Lavellan to be such a fine player of the Game," and Dorian smiles to himself, shoulders sagging a little with relief. Vivienne was right—he _should_ have trusted Leas. The man always knows how to pull off a miracle, doesn't he?

"Yes, he has done very well," the man responds. "I have rarely seen the court so charmed. And he's quite the dancer. Inexperienced, but talented and enthusiastic. You should ask one of him if you get the chance."

And there goes that feeling.

Dorian drains his glass, realising he's getting close to having one drink too many but unable to bring himself to care. He tries to shut out the conversation as best he can, and to tell himself that he's being absurd—but the message will not penetrate his jealous lover's mind. _Look at what you're doing to me,_ he thinks, wistfully, before the thought of how many men Leas has danced with returns to the forefront of his mind, and he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Dorian." He hears the word faintly, and he looks up to see Leas standing at the door, staff in hand, Vivienne and Varric just behind him. He jerks his head back, beckoning, the expression on his unmasked face close to urgent.

There's his cue.

He lays his glass aside and heads over to them, quick and quiet, and as they make their way from the ballroom to the royal wing, he keeps his own mask on, showing nothing of his frustration. He hopes that whatever's to come will serve as sufficient distraction from the ugly feelings burning in his blood.

* * *

Later, after all is over, after Florianne and Celene have both been slain, after Gaspard is crowned and rendered a puppet in almost the same moment, after the elves of Orlais start raising glasses to Leas and Briala in secret, Dorian heads out onto the central balcony and finds the man leaning heavily on it. A strange sight, the hero of the hour who so likes to be the centre of attention lurking well away from it, but it is no stranger than the fact that Leas allowed the assassination to take place. Dorian can still hardly wrap his head around the fact that it happened at all.

Still, as ever, he starts off lightly and flippantly, mentioning the ancient dowager and her daughters and how he'd fended her off as he leans next to Leas. Then he notices the weariness on the man's face, and he softens. "But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?"

There's a pause, and for a moment, Dorian fears that Leas will brush him off as he has so often done, as he did after Adamant. But then his shoulders sink a little further, and he sighs and says quietly, "I just feel… dirty. I suppose the Game does that to everyone, but… Maybe I could have forced some kind of peace agreement. Maybe Celene didn't have to die."

There he goes again, thinking he can save everyone. Dorian gives him a warm smile, at much borne out of his relief that Leas actually confessed his troubles to him as anything else. "Sitting on the throne's a risky job. She knew that," he says. "At least her empire's safe, yes?"

Leas doesn't respond. He instead looks away and sighs again, even shudders delicately. _Ah, poor man. He survived the Game, but it got to him in the end._ Hopefully, this means such actions like allowing Celene's assassination won't become Leas' new _modus operandi_ —it would be tragic for Leas to lose himself in such a manner after coming out victorious over Orlais. That would be the real defeat, more than any political suicide he might have committed here tonight, or any trouble he might have got into that he couldn't have extracted himself from.

After a few moments, Dorian hears from inside the musicians striking up another song. If he were anything other than Tevinter, he might have been caught off-guard at this, for Celene's blood has only just been wiped off the floor, but carrying on with a party even after an assassination is a common enough practice back home, too. Well, the Orlesians seem occupied with themselves for now—this might be his last chance.

If nothing else, his bruised pride is demanding some form of recompense. So he pushes off the balcony, bows and offers his hand with a slight flourish, and he asks. He speaks the words confidently enough, makes it seem a request in the strictest sense only, but still, fear coalesces in his gut as soon as the words are out. If Leas, for whatever reason, thinks he's caused enough damage…

But at once, Leas' face floods with colour, and he grins, the sparkle coming back into his eyes. "I was hoping you'd ask," he says, and he lays his hand in Dorian's and lets him pull into the dance. The fear breaks apart, and Dorian smiles at him, almost grins himself. His blood runs warm now, but not so sickly—more tingly, glowing even.

"Thank goodness _one_ of us has a little initiative," he says, holding Leas tight and caring not who might look through the door. For half a moment, he's nearly distracted from the steps by the beam on Leas' face and the way his blue eyes seem to _glow_ in the dark, almost, but he recovers himself soon enough. Forward, to the right, close, backward, to the left, close, turn…

"If you'll recall," Leas says teasingly, " _I_ told _you_ I wanted a dance."

Dorian's smile drops. "And I blew you off, yes, I know," he says, the words coming out too fast. "That didn't seem to stop you."

Leas hesitates for a moment and tries to cover it by checking their footing. "From dancing with others, you mean? Other men?"

"Quite." His grip on Leas tightens a little, as irrational as he knows the action to be.

Leas' blush deepens. "In my defence, those men were harassing Cullen," he says, looking up and catching Dorian's gaze again. "They wouldn't leave him alone, and he was frightened. Josephine advised me against telling them off directly, so I distracted them. I may have flirted a little. And I _apologise_ for that, but trust me, Cullen was scared, I could tell. I couldn't just leave him…" His words ooze painful sincerity, and even if they didn't, Dorian knows he has no reason to suspect him of lying. It _would_ be so much like the Orlesians to harass a handsome Fereldan man, wouldn't it?

"Then you're forgiven," he says gently, with another smile, and his bruised pride settles down, satisfied. "The Game makes us all dirty, as you say."

Leas shakes his head. "Enough of the Game," he mutters. "I never want to hear about it again. One of the _very_ few things in this world that needs to be entirely done away with, for Orlais' sake as much as anyone else's."

"Hah! Try telling the Orlesians that," Dorian says, grinning, but he obliges Leas. No need to mention it again, not for a while, after having been released from it at long last. He spins Leas out then pulls him back in as the tempo of the music picks up, and he quickens his steps, and Leas laughs and smiles all the wider, a little light dancing in his eyes. Dorian's breath catches at the sight of it.

So it goes for some time longer, Leas laughing joyfully and staring at Dorian like all the stars are hung in his eyes (when really that description has never applied more to anyone than it does to _Leas_ , Maker's breath) while Dorian leads them around the balcony, grinning back at him and not caring for once who might see them, what gossip might spread. Why worry about such things when he holds something so beautiful and glorious in his arms, someone who stares at him like _that_ , in a way he's never been stared at before? On impulse, he spins Leas out again then pulls him close enough for their foreheads to touch, and Leas giggles and stares up at him like he's the happiest man alive.

As the song ends, Dorian gets one last idea, and with a small grin, he quickly changes his footing and his grip on Leas, keeping one hand on his waist and moving the other to the small of his back. There's one instant where Leas' expression shifts as he recognises the change, but he doesn't get the chance to act; with the final chords, Dorian dips him half to the floor and presses their foreheads together, their mouths inches apart. Leas gasps, eyes going wide (if that is even possible) as he scrambles to hook his hands around his neck, but then he grins and chuckles softly.

"Romantic, aren't you?" he teases.

Dorian assumes an expression of mock offence even as he tries not to return the smile. " _Me?_ Perish the thought. You're quite romantic enough for the both of us, Leas," he says, ignoring the glow in his veins and the fact that, internally or not, he just called Leas _glorious_.

Leas throws back his head and laughs, loud and clear like a bell. "Sure, as you say." They kiss quickly, lips pressing firmly to each other for a moment—or they try to, as Dorian by now can't keep himself from smiling. "That was the best of this evening, in every way."

"I _hope_ so," Dorian says, pulling them both back to their feet and resting his hands on Leas' shoulder and neck. "One bright spot in this whole affair, unquestionably."

Leas giggles again and leans into Dorian's touch, staring at him now like a man besotted. "Agreed. But I suppose we should get back. Let's see how many people we've scandalised…"

Even that reminder isn't enough to bring him back down to earth, for a change. "It's their problem if they turn on their saviour so quickly," Dorian says as they turn to the door. As he does so, he tries to work out what this little glow is made of: relief, lightness, real happiness and not the faked amusement nobles always have to deploy, something… something else.

Something he can't quite name.

"Too true," Leas says, distracting him. "But as I recall, I think you owe me an explanation of how ten silk scarves make a _really_ shocking dance…"

Dorian laughs. "Demanding, aren't you? All right, here's how it goes…" They head back into the ballroom, then, and the promised explanation keeps their attention thoroughly on each other, rather than the nobles who stare at them and whisper behind their hands as they leave.


End file.
